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  “How much fuel do we have left?” I said.

  “A little more than half a tank,” Ray said. “Flying around waiting for you took its toll.”

  “You’re in charge of planning our escape if we have to ditch,” I said.

  “I already called the Coast Guard to let them know we’re headed their way,” Ray said. “Just in case.”

  Crap. I needed to call my favorite FBI agent, T. Edward Booth. His accusations about our disappearance could have been hard to defend if we weren’t flying home in what I thought was a government-owned airplane that had been missing for fifty years. The Beast had no registration numbers, but the documents I found behind the instrument panel told quite the story.

  And not only did we have the treasure, we had one of the thieves and an escaped spy.

  That’ll shut Booth up.

  I realized I was smiling like an idiot. I’d never admit it, but my arrangement with Booth did have its upside.

  What was I thinking?

  Postscript

  54

  Confusion, jubilation, and amazement greeted us at Key West Airport. Booth’s accusations fell silent at the sight of Gutierrez, who was whisked into a waiting ambulance. No doubt torn as to where he’d get the most credit, Booth elected to dive in with the paramedics before they shrieked off the tarmac.

  The news that followed over the next few days was nothing short of fantastic. Given that Gutierrez was a captured spy, albeit kidnapped from his home country, Booth had enough leverage to keep a tight lid on the facts that led up to the capture and the rescue of the missing antiquities. The lack of details had the news hounds crazy, and with Booth at the center of the storm, it looked like he’d been the one calling the shots.

  Anonymity for me was just fine.

  Gutierrez was airlifted to Miami-Dade Hospital where he faded in and out of life, finally stabilizing and regaining full consciousness. Booth told me Gutierrez had no recollection of coming to Puerto Esperanza to intercept us and would not believe for days that he was in a Miami hospital. His next stop would be an FBI safe house, then a federal penitentiary.

  Truck’s greeting upon his return to Key West was not what he’d envisioned. Yes, there were television crews, but they were there to witness his arrest for the theft of the Atocha treasure. He remained in jail until Booth had confirmation from Treasure Salvors that the treasure was intact and Gutierrez’s identification was verified. My constant pressure and insistence that Truck was innocent did nothing but irritate Booth.

  Dismay is the only word that could describe how the Beast was viewed, both at the airport by those who knew Ray and me, and by the FAA, who after a careful review and investigation into her long-forgotten existence tried to claim she was government property. I filed a salvage claim, which under Florida and national maritime law gave me ownership. With challenges and threats by bureaucrats in Washington, the case promised to be complicated, high profile, and far more expensive than I could afford—until I had an epiphany and offered Booth the letter from Kennedy to Castro in exchange.

  The government challenge was dropped the next day.

  The Beast was now officially mine, which was sort of like winning a mold-infested houseboat in a poker game, but tickled the daylights out of Ray and me anyway.

  Fully engaged in the restoration project, Ray had called known amphibian hotspots around the country. After six days, he hit the jackpot in Sitka, Alaska. There was a charter company there that had winnowed its fleet of amphibians to switch over to more dependable sea planes like Cessna Caravans and de Havilland Beavers, but they had one Widgeon they felt was worth repair. The good news was they also had a Goose they were parting-out, and our luck held as their Goose had an intact port wing assembly and original radial engine they agreed to trade for Betty’s Lycoming engine and wing that we’d fashioned onto the Beast. Arrangements were made, trucks chartered, and the dismantling of the Beast was commenced. Ray and I did the work after hours since I couldn’t afford to pay him and he had an understandable fondness for the Beast, having brought her back to life. She would be out of commission for a few weeks, at best, but there was a slight chance that Last Resort Charters and Salvage would fly again.

  The full recovery of the Atocha treasure made headlines all over the country. Donny, the General Manager of Treasure Salvors, was euphoric since much of their operation was fueled by the museum exhibit and store that provided a steady income and occasional investors for new salvage activities.

  The missing gold ingot caused a brief stir until I explained the sacrifice Juan’s family had made to keep Ray and me safe, which ultimately led to the treasure’s rescue. Donny muttered that as much of a pain in the ass as Standard Mutual Insurance had been, they could cover one three-pound gold bar. I decided against mentioning his insurance company’s rent-a-mercenary, Gunner, as that would only exacerbate Donny’s situation, and he wouldn’t have known about him anyway. He promised a grand celebration to coincide with the climax of Fantasy Fest, with me and Ray to be the guests of honor.

  In a rare quiet moment in my suite at the La Concha, I read a letter that had arrived while I was gone. It was from my brother.

  Buck,

  Sorry for the way things went down in Geneva. We may not see eye to eye, and we may have never been close, but adopted or not, you’re my brother. I don’t agree with everything you’ve done in your life, and the investigations into your activities at the end of e-Antiquity remain a concern, but if you ever need my help —badly— then call me. See you …

  –B

  His words made me smile. Not exactly a proclamation of brotherly love, but I wouldn’t expect that from him. It was a start.

  I suddenly remembered another letter; the one Karen had left the morning she took off. I took a deep breath, tore the envelope open and read the single paragraph once, then read it again.

  “I’ll always remember you too, Karen,” I said.

  With the two letters folded and placed with the note from my father saying I was adopted—news I still hadn’t had the chance to process—my heart felt lighter. I spent some quiet time alone, thought of the souls that had come and gone from my life, and treasured their memories.

  THE NIGHT HAD FINALLY come and Key West was in the throes of another wild climax to Fantasy Fest. Women whose outfits consisted of colorful paint adorning their otherwise naked bodies roamed the Old Town streets, bars, and restaurants in the local version of Mardi Gras or Carnival. Hotels and jails were packed, the line of cars extended halfway up the Keys for day-trippers hoping for some quick memories, and Duval Street was closed to all vehicular traffic. The weather cooperated and I watched what promised to be another memorable fête from The Top, the rooftop lounge above the La Concha Hotel.

  I had lived through a few of these parties and braced myself for any surprise that might come, knowing none would be more welcome than the lovely lady to my right.

  Nina Maceo had been welcomed into Key West like the hero she was—after all, she’d disabled the Atocha thief and saved my life. So many people viewed her with awe and respect. The rest just marveled at her beauty. I had respected what she’d told me on the beach at Puerto Esperanza and waited for a sign from her, which took all of half of the first evening to come. Since then we’d been inseparable. I had delighted in showing her around my island home and helping her connect with her grandmother and other relatives who’d prospered in the sugar industry mid-state. She was set to go see them tomorrow, but for tonight, she was all mine.

  “Are you ready?” I said.

  Her smile was brilliant. Incandescent. Irresistible.

  “I feel so overdressed,” she said.

  She was wearing a slinky, cream-colored silk dress that offset her almond skin and glorious hair, and accentuated her shapely, athletic build.

  “We can go get you painted up, if you’d prefer.”

  She took my arm and we made our way down the elevator and through the back of the La Concha lobby, where every eye turned to w
atch her pass. We took our time and walked arm in arm up Whitehead, past ancient banyan trees, government buildings, and small inns. The noise and energy a block over on Duval was palpable, and horns, fireworks, and sweet and musty aromas filled the air. But it was all background to the purr of Nina’s voice and her rich laughter, meant only for me.

  We arrived at the Treasure Salvors museum at the same time as Ray, who’d taken a cab.

  “Fancy meeting you two here.” Ray pulled the door open for Nina and shook his head as he watched her pass.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  “How come you always get the girl?”

  “Sorry old pal, but this time it’s special.”

  “Sure, Buck, it’s always special.”

  The crowd inside erupted a second later as Nina walked in. Ray and I followed and found the museum full of friends, officials, and one person I could have done without, Special Agent T. Edward Booth—who joined the cheers for our entry. Yes, even Booth. But he wasted no time taking me by the arm and steering me to a quiet corner.

  “One last piece of official business before your little party starts,” he said.

  “I lost your phone if that’s—”

  “Forget the phone, Reilly, I’ll get you another one next time I need you.” He glanced around, then leaned closer to me. “Do you know a Richard Rostenkowski, a.k.a. Gunner?”

  I scratched my chin. “Doesn’t sound familiar, why?”

  “He was a hired gun for Standard Mutual, the insurance company that covers these criminals.” This with a nod toward the Treasure Salvors crowd. “The Cuban Secret Police have him in custody. He says he knows you and that you were supposed to get him out of Cuba but double-crossed him.”

  I took a step back.

  “Would I do such a thing?” I smiled. “And that reminds me, Booth, when we were salvaging Betty we found a transponder on board. I understand you planted that there.”

  A rare smile puckered his lips. “I knew you’d lead me to that treasure one way or another, Reilly, but I wasn’t sure you’d come home.”

  “Such trust.” I noticed a crowd forming around Nina. “Go have yourself a Shirley Temple, Booth. I’m headed to the rum bar.”

  Donny Pogue, Truck Lewis and I all converged upon Ray and Nina at the same time. Donny gave Nina a tentative peck on the cheek and me a bear hug.

  “We’re going to have a quick ceremony to honor and thank you, Nina, Truck, and Ray before we kick off the party.”

  “That’s not nec—”

  “And when I give you the reward check, act pleasantly surprised and don’t let your eyes bug out of your head, all right?” Donny dug into his pocket. “But first, this is from me.”

  He held his clenched hand out and I placed mine below it.

  When I saw what he’d dropped in my palm, I couldn’t speak.

  It was a beautiful gold chain with a handsomely mounted gold doubloon.

  “It’s from the Atocha. Whether you found it at the bottom of the ocean, at the Panama Canal, or on a Cuban tobacco farm, you earned this one, friend. But the real reward is the check, so thanks again.”

  I found my voice. “Thanks, Donny, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Yeah, right. Now you better catch up to Nina with all those drooling buzzards around her.”

  He gave me a slap on the back and I couldn’t help but smile.

  Life was finally starting to look up.

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  For their help with this book, and for support, encouragement, and assistance with the series, the author would like to thank Ross Browne, Renni Browne, Peter Gelfan, Morgana Gallaway, Chris Fisher, Mark Korsak and the entire team at The Editorial Department, Anne-Marie Nieves and Lori Edelman at Get Red PR, Steve Troha, Jita Fumich and Folio Literary Management, John Wojciech at C:straight Media, Pege Wright from Parrot Heads in Paradise, Gloria Garcia for Spanish translation, Jim, Jay, Mary, Beth and my family.

  Also, a big thank you to all the readers, reviewers, bloggers, Facebook fans, Twitter followers, Jimmy Buffett fans and my friends, new and old, who have embraced Buck Reilly and my writing. It’s been a fun journey that I hope continues into the foreseeable future. The goal is to entertain and share some of the irreverent and crazy things I’ve seen, done and imagined, so far. More to come…

  Note: At the time of publication, Fidel and Raul Castro are still alive, but things have already begun to change there, albeit slowly. This book takes place during the immediate vacuum anticipated after their demise.

  About the Author

  JOHN H. CUNNINGHAM has a background as eclectic as Buck himself. With over 20 years of experience in commercial real estate, he has also served as the editor of The Pro Review, a magazine for professional photographers. John lives in Virginia with his wife, two daughters, two Portuguese Water Dogs, a Havanese, a cat, his 22 year-old African Grey parrot and a few horses scattered around the countryside. He spends much of his time traveling. His choices for the places and plots that populate the Buck Reilly series include many of the things he loves: Key West, Cuba, the Bahamas, Caribbean settings, along with amphibious aircraft, colorful characters, and stories that concern themselves with the same tensions and issues that affect all of our lives.

  John’s website can be viewed at www.jhcunningham.com.